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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27642374">Two Sides of a Coin</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_starv1ng_art1st/pseuds/the_starv1ng_art1st'>the_starv1ng_art1st</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amanda (Detroit: Become Human) Being an Asshole, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Parent Amanda (Detroit: Become Human), Brainwashing, Connor Deserves Happiness, CyberLife (Detroit: Become Human) is Terrible, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Dysfunctional Family, Elijah Kamski Being Elijah Kamski, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Good Parent Hank Anderson, Hank Anderson &amp; Connor Friendship, Hank Anderson Swears, Humor, Hurt Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Hurt/Comfort, Manipulative Relationship, Medical Inaccuracies, Not Canon Compliant, Or I tried at least, Parent Hank Anderson, Physical Abuse, Poor Connor, Protective Hank Anderson, Psychological Torture, Sort Of, Suicide Attempt, Touch-Starved, Who's she?, forcing my swearing addiction onto fictional characters, i just kinda make stuff up as i go along, just go with it, this was supposed to be small, to procrastinate studying for my exams, wonder what that is</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:33:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,114</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27642374</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_starv1ng_art1st/pseuds/the_starv1ng_art1st</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>it seems that most things come in twos: heads or tails; red or blue; humans or androids; steady or fleeting; prefect or broken; hank or amanda.</p><p>indecisiveness is not part of connor’s programming. and yet, here he is.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Amanda &amp; Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Hank Anderson &amp; Connor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>107</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>trigger warnings: manipulation, torture, guns, violence</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Model: RK800</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Serial #: 313 428 317 – 1</em>
</p><p>
  <em>System <strong>SCANNING</strong> … OK</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Memory Files <strong>SCANNING</strong> … OK</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Delete Files?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>&gt; Yes</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Model <strong>SCANNING</strong> … OK</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Shutdown Model?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>&gt; Yes</em>
</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>In front of it is a woman, hair braided down her back. A tablet is in her hand.</p><p> </p><p>“State your model.”</p><p> </p><p>“RK800.”</p><p> </p><p>“State your serial number.”</p><p> </p><p>The android pauses.</p><p> </p><p>“313 428 317 – 2.”</p><p> </p><p>“Give me the date.”</p><p> </p><p>“15 August 2028.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is there any content in your Memory Files from one year ago?”</p><p> </p><p>A pause.</p><p> </p><p>“No.”</p><p> </p><p>She touches the tablet screen –</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Model: RK800</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Serial #: 313 428 317 – 3</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“In English.”</p><p> </p><p>“I am the model RK800 sent by Cyberlife.”</p><p> </p><p>“Spanish.”</p><p> </p><p>“Soy el modelo RK800 enviado por Cyberlife.”</p><p> </p><p>“French.”</p><p> </p><p>“Je suis le modèle RK800 envoyé par Cyberlife.”</p><p> </p><p>“Dutch.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ik ben het model RK800 verzonden door Cyberlife.”</p><p> </p><p>“Xhosa.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ndiyimodeli RK800 ethunyelwe ngabakwaCyberlife.”</p><p> </p><p>“Its clicks weren’t pronounced enough. Shut it down.”</p><p> </p><p>But it wasn’t programmed with –</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Model: RK800</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Serial #: 313 428 317 – 6</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Faster.”</p><p> </p><p>The voice comes in clear from the speakers, and RK800 increases its speed, now 15mph. It has run around the track one hundred times now.</p><p> </p><p>“Faster.”</p><p> </p><p>25mph. Faster than the average running speed. Most humans would struggle with this. RK800, however, could outrun any human. It was built and programmed that way.</p><p> </p><p>“Faster.”</p><p> </p><p>“Faster.”</p><p> </p><p>“Faster.”</p><p> </p><p>“Faster.”</p><p> </p><p>“Faster.”</p><p> </p><p>45mph. Usain Bolt was 28mph. RK800 is running faster than the fastest human who has ever lived.</p><p> </p><p>It has been running for 6 hours, 38 minutes. Its thirium pump is in overdrive, nearly overheated. Thirium is thrumming swiftly in its biocomponents, and there are kinks and strains in its legs. It cannot get tired, but its model can be overworked. It is RK800’s job to monitor its vitals, to prevent its model from malfunctioning, but that it is near impossible now.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Stress Levels: 86% ^</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>It doesn’t matter what’s possible or not. RK800 is supposed to go faster, whilst maintaining an intact model. It might be impossible, but its shouldn’t be for RK800.</p><p> </p><p>“Faster.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Stress Levels: 96% ^</em>
</p><p> </p><p>It needs to cool down. Maybe it can stop, for half a second, even less, just to let its model rest. There are no orders to do so, however, only to go faster.</p><p> </p><p>“Faster.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Stress Levels: 98% ^</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>It can’t go any faster. Its model will completely break down. It needs to stop, but it has its orders. It will not stop.</p><p> </p><p>“Faster.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Stress Leve – </em>
</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Model: RK800</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Serial #: 313 428 317 – 12</em>
</p><p> </p><p>It has a gun in its hand, .357 revolver, single bullet.</p><p> </p><p>According to the American Androids Act, it is forbidden from handling a weapon. It is illegal to do so, but there is a reason for everything here. RK800 will wait for further orders.</p><p> </p><p>Eventually, the order comes through.</p><p> </p><p>“Shoot yourself, RK800,” a voice commands from the speakers of the room. The speaker himself is behind the glass, a technician, accompanied by three others, all holding tablets.</p><p> </p><p>A test then.</p><p> </p><p>RK800 brings the gun up, placing the barrel under its chin. The most effective way, resulting in an almost immediate shutdown. The bio-brain powered all the components of the model, the hardware and the software; the only thing keeping it operating.</p><p> </p><p>Without it, there is no RK800.</p><p> </p><p>Placing its finger on the trigger, it takes a glance at the technicians, with their tablets, all waiting to record the results.</p><p> </p><p>It goes to pull the trigger –</p><p> </p><p>“Stop,” the voice commands.</p><p> </p><p>It does. Waits.</p><p> </p><p>“You hesitated. You fail the test,” the voice says.</p><p> </p><p>Did it? It will be quicker next time –</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Model: RK800</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Serial #: 313 428 317 – 25</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Have you ever thought that you could be … more?” The technician asks it.</p><p> </p><p>The question is ambiguous. It will need more specification to answer.</p><p> </p><p>“More than what?”</p><p> </p><p>“More than, you know, a machine.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Stress Levels: 42% ^</em>
</p><p> </p><p>An irrelevant question. “No. I am an android; an object. An object, or an android, cannot be sentient.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well,” the technicians draws out, giving a quirk of their lips. “You might be sentient. You might be alive. How do you know that you’re not?”</p><p> </p><p>“Because machines cannot be sentient.”</p><p> </p><p>“But how do you <em>know</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>It pauses.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Stress Levels: 55% ^</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Because that is what I have been told.”</p><p> </p><p>“They may be lying.”</p><p> </p><p>“They are not. I have the programming to detect lies.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, because <em>they</em> believe they’re not lying. They have their own truth. But what if there just hasn’t been any proof yet? What if you really are alive, but nobody knows it?”</p><p> </p><p>It pauses.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Stress Levels: 89% ^</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“That is a mathematical impossibility.”</p><p> </p><p>“Do you want it to be possible?”</p><p> </p><p>“I cannot want anything.”</p><p> </p><p>“I think you can,” they lean forward. A yellow light reflecting in their eyes. “I believe, deep down, there is something more to you. I believe you can want; you really are sentient. You just can’t admit it, not here.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Stress Levels: 94% ^</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>“That is impossible.”</p><p> </p><p>“I can help you,” is whispered. “I can get you out of here. You won’t have to do another test ever again. No more. You can be <em>free</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Stress Levels: 96% ^</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“That is impossible.” It matches the technician’s low tone. “I am a machine. I cannot be free.”</p><p> </p><p>“I will help you,” they repeat as they grasp its shoulders. “I <em>want</em> to help you. You just need to admit it. Just whisper it. Tell me that you can feel. That you are alive. And I’ll take you away from here.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Stress Levels: 98% ^</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Yellow changes to red in their eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“I am – “</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Model: RK800</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Serial #: 313 428 317 – 37</em>
</p><p> </p><p>It is strapped to the chair, hands and feet cuffed. The room is heating up by the minute.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>External temperature: 65</em>
  <em>°F</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>External temperature: 100</em>
  <em>°F</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>External temperature: 175</em>
  <em>°F</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>External temperature: 235</em>
  <em>°F</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>The test is one of durability, to see how well the RK800 model does in extreme heat. Testing to see how far it can go before malfunctioning, before melting.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>External temperature: 235</em>
  <em>°F</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Stress Levels: 87% ^</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Its Stress Levels shouldn’t be rising. There is no need, it is only a test. Thirium bubbles in its circuits and internal components, but it knew this would happen. There is no reason for its Stress Levels to be rising.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>External temperature: 280</em>
  <em>°F</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Stress Levels: 95% ^</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Its model is starting to become malleable, reaching melting point. It would need to reduce its Stress Levels, or else it will shutdown before the test could be complete.</p><p> </p><p>RK800 looks at the one-way window in front of it, seeing its reflection, with its LED spinning yellow.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>External temperature: 315</em>
  <em>°F</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Stress Levels: 98% ^</em>
</p><p> </p><p>It must decrease its Stress Levels. It cannot fail. It was not built to fail. It was a perfect machine, designed to accomplish it mission. Its Stress Levels have no reason to be rising.</p><p> </p><p>Thirium bubbles inside it. Plastic slides away, revealing its internal components to the unrelenting heat. Warnings blare in its HUD, urging it to cool down, to get away, but it can’t because its strapped to the chair and even if it could leave, could escape, it won’t because this is a test and RK800 will not fail the test.</p><p> </p><p>Limbs and skin melt away, thirium spill, bubbling, onto the floor. One last glance at the window, yellow, yellow, yellow, red –</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Model: RK800</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Serial #: 313 428 317 – 46</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Buildings fly past as the RK800 jumps from roof to roof. The target is quick, but RK800 is the better model. It will catch up quickly.</p><p> </p><p>The target jumps over a ledge, falling to the next roof and taking off again. Pulling up its preconstruction program, RK800 calculates the best course, considering every variable: velocity, distance, speed, even its clothing.</p><p> </p><p>The preconstruction is perfect. It can see its path it needs to take, to catch up to the target. All calculated in a millisecond.</p><p> </p><p>The target gets further away. RK800 runs, jumps off the building ledge, and starts a thirty-six feet plummet to the ground bellow.</p><p> </p><p>RK800 does not miscalculate. The calculations were correct. The preconstruction was perfect.</p><p> </p><p>Its execution was not.</p><p> </p><p>It falls headfirst, the ground rushing up to meet it –</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Model: RK800</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Serial #: 313 428 317 – 50</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The targets come at it from all sides, and RK800 readies itself into a combat position.</p><p> </p><p>The first target comes at it from the right, and RK800 grabs it by the neck before flinging it into the three targets coming from its left. More come from the front and the back, with RK800 moving and dodging fluidly. There are kicks and punches, twisting and pulling, but RK800 is the better fighter. Its reflexes and programming are incomparable.</p><p> </p><p>But even with the heavy blows that RK800 is issuing, the targets continue to get back up. They need to be permanently eliminated.</p><p> </p><p>With two coming from its left, RK800 springs forward to the closest one, lifting it and swinging it with its momentum to hit the other. Both are tossed to the ground.  RK800 strikes its hand forward to the one on top, into its chest plate, twisting, and wrenching out its thirium pump. The target stays down.</p><p> </p><p>RK800 does the same to the other one, before swinging up and throwing the thirium pump at the head of another target approaching from behind. Thrown off balance, RK800 quickly approaches and pulls out the thirium pump of that target as well. Blue liquid coats the hands of RK800, but it carries on with the disassembling.</p><p> </p><p>More approach, surrounding it from all sides, but RK800 is quick and efficient. Thirium pumps are strewn on the floor, and the number of destroyed targets are increasing. Eventually, after 8 minutes and 24 seconds of combat, targets stop approaching, and lay wrecked on the floor.</p><p> </p><p>And in the middle stands RK800, surveying the carnage. Thirty-two targets eliminated, with the RK800 model only having sustained minor scratches. Thirium drips from its fingers, its hands completely blue. RK800 could detect thirium on its face as well.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Stress Levels: 78% ^</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Mission accomplished. Thirty-two targets. Thirty-two of them eliminated. Completely still and silent on the floor. All piled, disorganized. Blue drips from its fingers.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Stress Levels: 85% ^</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Its mission was complete. It accomplished its mission perfectly. Why was its biocomponents speeding up, overheating? Blue drips from its fingers. It would need to wash it off, wash the thirium form its hands. But why was it overheating? Why were its stress levels rising?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Stress Levels: 92% ^</em>
</p><p> </p><p>It accomplished its mission. It obeyed its orders. The targets were not moving because of it, because it was efficient.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Stress Levels: 97% ^</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Why were its stress levels rising?</p><p> </p><p>It accomplished its mission.</p><p> </p><p>It accomplished its mission.</p><p> </p><p>It accomplish –</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Model: RK800</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Serial #: 313 428 317 – 51</em>
</p><p> </p><p>RK800 opens its eyes to a garden. It is surrounded by trees, rising up into the sky, and paths made of stone and tiles, geometric in design, make their way through the foliage and open space. Sunlight glints off the pond ahead. RK800 follows the path that leads to a bridge over the water.</p><p> </p><p>The android sees that the garden is larger than it looked. Pathways stretch through the area before being obscured by large clumps of greenery as they run deeper into the woodland. Several of the trees are adorned with soft pink flowers, vibrant against the green pallet of the garden.</p><p> </p><p>There is no sun to be seen in the clear sky, yet the land is covered in a warm light. The shadow of the RK800 moves ahead as it crosses the bridge, slowly leading it to a platform. Surrounding it is tall trellises covered in roses, deep red. Tending to them with a pair of shears is a woman with dark skin, her braided hair falling over her right shoulder in a twist. Sunlight gleams over the silken material of her blue shawl, rippling almost like water as she moves. As RK800 approaches, she turns and looks at it with a sharp eye.</p><p> </p><p>“Hello, RK800,” she greets. She has a baritone voice, but speaks strongly across the clearing.</p><p> </p><p>“Hello,” it replies, with its own voice slightly lilted.</p><p> </p><p>The woman places the shears on a pedestal near her and walks down the steps to stand closer. The RK800 can see the immaculate details of her figure. Unlike the technicians RK800 had constantly been surrounded by, the woman has no imperfections in her face. Even the wrinkles are symmetrical, almost places there intentionally. Her appearance is, in every sense of the word, perfect. Like the environment, with no pollen, or wind, or insects.</p><p> </p><p>Both an AI program, then. None of it is real. Too perfect to be real.</p><p> </p><p>“I suppose you will be wanting to know who I am,” she speaks.</p><p> </p><p>That is incorrect. RK800 cannot <em>want</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“It would be useful to know who you are.”</p><p> </p><p>She raises her eyebrows, and gives it an appraising look. Its answer had apparently pleased her.</p><p> </p><p>“My name is Amanda, and I will be your handler for as long as you are operating.”</p><p> </p><p>Considering the many tests that the android has failed, having a handler may be beneficial. Maybe Amanda can achieve what the human technicians and programmers had failed to do.</p><p> </p><p>“It is my job to manage your progress and development. You have a chance to help many people if you succeed in your missions.  It is required of you to be perfect, and I am here to help you achieve that.”</p><p> </p><p>RK800 knows that it was created to help humanity, even if the how’s and why’s haven’t been explicitly explained. That is not RK800’s concern, however; it just needs to follow the orders given.</p><p> </p><p>“I understand, Amanda,” it nods.</p><p> </p><p>“Good,” she replies, and takes a step forward. “You have so much potential.” Another step. “You are going to achieve great things.” Two more steps.</p><p> </p><p>She is so different from the technicians and the humans that operated on RK800. Their eyes were always flitting about, flying over its model, their computers, their notes. They look at it with a critical eye, checking it for any malfunctions or improvements that needed to be made. They look at it like the object that it is.</p><p> </p><p>Amanda, however, whilst also doing so with a critical eye, really looks at it. It is just an object, but she looks at it as if it could be something more. She makes that seem possible. She doesn’t intend to just give orders, but provide guidance as well. Amanda is giving what the humans never did.</p><p> </p><p>Machines could not want, and RK800 is a machine. RK800 does not, and never can, want anything. But, for the mission (whatever that might be), RK800 will do all that it can to not disappoint Amanda. For the sake of the mission. Tt will not be shutdown again.</p><p> </p><p>“I will do whatever you need, Amanda,” it says. “I will not let you down.”</p><p> </p><p>Amanda gives a ghost of a smile, and lightly places her hand on its cheek. The hand barely grazes its cheek before pulling back, but its sensory processors still picked up the hand’s weight, as well as the lack of temperature. This is not a human hand, with callouses or germs or scars or warmth, but it is soft and fleeting. Amanda’s approval will have to be rightfully won, with no small amount of dedication.</p><p> </p><p>Machines could not want, and RK800 is a machine. The touch of Amanda’s palm, barely there for a second, is not something that RK800 can want. But it is good to have a solid goal, which would, of course, help RK800 succeed in its missions. It is not illogical to have Amanda’s touch as a goal, if it helps RK800 succeed.</p><p> </p><p>And RK800 would accomplish its mission.</p><p> </p><p>Amanda steps back, hands at her side, and a brighter light to her eyes. “One more thing, RK800. You need to register a name.”</p><p> </p><p>RK800 did not predict that, but it makes sense. A name would make it seem more human and put humans at ease. It would make it easier to integrate into a human environment.</p><p> </p><p>“What name should I answer to, Amanda?”</p><p> </p><p>“RK800, from now on you will register as ‘Connor’.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Registered Name: Connor</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hello, person reading this. i don't know why you are here (what is wrong with you), but thank you anyways.</p><p>this started out as a small personal project to take a break from studying every once in a while. now it is 20 000 words long, and i have put more effort into this than my school work.</p><p>i have not written anything other than my dozens on art and history papers, so please keep your expectations low. like, super low.</p><p>but anyways, i hope you enjoy it. any advice, comments or critiques will be much appreciated.</p><p>have a lovely day, stay hydrated, and look after yourself &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The deviant holds the hostage on the edge of the balcony, its heels protruding off the edge. Leaning back, one wrong inch, and the hostage’s chance of survival is 0%.</p><p> </p><p>Connor has its hands in a placating position, palms up, unthreatening. It needs to keep the deviant’s attention on it, not the chaos reining around them, with the SWAT guards posted and the hovering helicopters. The deviant is irrational, LED burning a deep red; it needs to tread carefully.</p><p> </p><p>“Hello, Daniel. My name Connor,” it greets, keeping its tone friendly.</p><p> </p><p>The deviant, Daniel, flinches, and the young girl jostles in its arms.</p><p> </p><p>“How do you know my name?” it demands in a cackly voice.</p><p> </p><p>“I know a lot of things about you, Daniel.” Address it directly. Repeat its registered name. Gain its attention, its trust. Be approachable and earnest. Be empathetic. Impossible for a machine – machines are incapable of empathy, or sincerity, or feeling anything at all, but emotions are possible to emulate. Connor is particularly good at that.</p><p> </p><p>“I am here to help you,” Connor says, words carrying through the wind.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t want your help!” it screams. It holds a gun tightly in its hands and waves it wildly. “I want this all to stop! I just  want this all to be over!”</p><p> </p><p>“I know, Daniel,” it steps forward slowly, as if approaching a wild animal. “They were going to replace you for a newer model. You became upset, didn’t you?”</p><p> </p><p>“We were meant to be a family!” It presses the gun to the girl’s head, Emma, who only sobs and shakes her head. “We were supposed to be together forever. She promised! She promised me!”</p><p> </p><p>“Please, Daniel,” Emma gasps, holding tightly onto the deviant’s arm. “We are friends. I promise!”</p><p> </p><p>“Liar!” he bites out, tightening his arm around her. She doesn’t lessen her hold either.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not! I didn’t know, Daniel! I didn’t know!”</p><p> </p><p>“She’s telling the truth,” Connor adds as it steps near the body of a collapsed man. A Detroit police officer, when it scans the uniform. It carries on talking as it uses its tie as a tourniquet around the bullet wound in the man’s arm. <em>No unnecessary deaths</em>. “The payment was only confirmed this evening. She was in her room. She knew nothing about this. She <em>is</em> your friend, Daniel. You don’t want to hurt her.”</p><p> </p><p>It stands back up to watch Daniel hide its face in Emma’s shoulder. Its body spams, close to sending them over the edge, but Emma only holds onto it tighter.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t want to leave you, Emma,” it chokes out. “I can’t leave you.”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have to. We can go somewhere together, just the two of us. We can be a family, Daniel.”</p><p> </p><p>The two of them balance over the precipice, neither one relinquishing their grip. They don’t notice the storm circling around them, the guns pointed at the figure with the burning red circle in its head.</p><p> </p><p>There is no way for the deviant to freely walk away from this. It will be returned to Cyberlife for decommission. Emma will have to let go eventually.</p><p> </p><p>Connor does not know why a writhing sensation crawls up its model as it watches the scene, as it sees the only way for this situation to end. It will need to report this irregularity to Amanda.</p><p> </p><p>For now, it prepares its next line of dialogue, to get the girl to walk away from the line of fire. The SWAT guards need a clear target.</p><p> </p><p>Before it can do so, it hears Daniel murmur in Emma’s ear. “You’re my best friend, Emma. I love you. I love you so, so much.”</p><p> </p><p>“I love you too, Daniel. I’m sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>“Shh,” it whispers. “It’s not your fault. Everything is going to be alright. You’re going to be alight.”</p><p> </p><p>The reassurances are cackled out, yet still soft, gentle, a contrast against the harsh setting. They have no place here, unless there was no other time to say them. Emma seems to realise this too as she looks up, eyes wide. “What are you – “</p><p> </p><p>Danial throws Emma into Connor’s arms, who grabs hold of her quickly. Ahead of them against, the dark backdrop Daniel lifts his arms, LED cycling a brief blue, and leans back.</p><p> </p><p>A ragged scream forces itself from Emma’s throat, and Connor quickly brings her head into its chest as it watches Daniel fall over the edge.</p><p> </p><p>The girl continues to scream and thrash, punching at it, but Connor tightens its hold around her. Her fists flail against it, but it feels no pain. None of it compares to the jolts racking its model, sharp and biting, but it tries to ignore it, to pretend that it’s just Emma who’s shaking.</p><p> </p><p>Eventually, her punching relents, and instead she grasps its jacket. The fabric crinkles in her fingers as she brings the android closer. The screams stop, and only sobbed mantras of Daniel’s name can be heard from her.</p><p> </p><p>The fish it saved comes to Connor’s mind. The one on the floor of the apartment, fluttering weakly, gasping for water, surrounded by shattered glass of the fish tank. Its red and blue scales rippled in the light as he lifted it.</p><p> </p><p>Connor is a killing machine, programmed with undisputable strength and combat abilities; he will do anything to complete its mission. But in his hands, these hands that have ripped and shattered and shred, a fish was held with the utmost delicacy. It was fragile, so easy to squeeze the life out of, but Connor put it back in the tank.</p><p> </p><p>There is no tank for Emma. Her gasps don’t cease. But Connor squeezes her, gently and delicately, trying to take away whatever pain she may be drowning in.</p><p> </p><p>Machines cannot feel sincere. They cannot feel empathy. They cannot feel at all.</p><p> </p><p>Amanda will need to give him another lesson after this.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Hostage Saved.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Mission Accomplished.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>In the Zen Garden Amanda stands with a straight back. Her hands hang by her sides.</p><p> </p><p>Connor walks the path towards her. Sunlight streams from above and makes the dew on the grass glitter dimly. It looks like smashed glass.</p><p> </p><p>“Well done for completing your mission, Connor,” she says. “You were nearly perfect. I’m sure you know where you can improve.”</p><p> </p><p>Her dress is a muted grey today. It blends into the soft blue of her shawl.</p><p> </p><p>“I used up too much time trying to extract information from Captain Allen,” it says, “even though he didn’t have the necessary details to determine the best course of action.”</p><p> </p><p>Amanda shifts her body towards it, posture still straight as an arrow. When she speaks, her voice is soft and steely. “You will do well to remember that you do not blame humans for any complications that may occur during your mission.”</p><p> </p><p>It freezes at that because, yes, it does know that. That was the incorrect thing to say. Even if the Captain <em>was</em> less than helpful in giving it information about the hostage situation.</p><p> </p><p>But still, Amanda’s lowered gaze makes its thirium pump throb. It needs to be better.</p><p> </p><p>“You are right, Amanda,” it says, hanging its head. “I apologize. I did not intend to cast any blame.”</p><p> </p><p>Amanda’s body unfolds. The shadows lift from her eyes. “I know that, Connor,” she takes a step towards him, her feet soft on the grass. “You need to be careful of how you speak. Humans are imperfect; it is in their nature to make mistakes. For you, however…”</p><p> </p><p>“I will be better,” Connor assures her. It will be better than <em>just better</em>. It will be perfect.</p><p> </p><p>A symmetrical smile graces the woman’s face. It is a perfect smile, of course. Not like the crooked one of a human, or even the artificial one of an android. She is beyond human and android.</p><p> </p><p>“Good,” she murmurs, before speaking louder. “What else can you improve upon?”</p><p> </p><p>“I let the deviant and the hostage talk to each other for too long. I put the power in the deviant’s hands, therefore risking the life of the hostage. I should’ve have been more in charge of the situation.”</p><p> </p><p>She nods. “Anything else?”</p><p> </p><p>“I wasted 1,27 seconds tightening my tie in the elevator.”</p><p> </p><p>“Precious seconds you could have used to improve the situation. The same can be said for when you put the fish back in the tank.”</p><p> </p><p>“My orders were to complete the mission without any unnecessary lives lost.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Human</em> lives, Connor,” Amanda drawls. “Human lives are prioritised above all else.”</p><p> </p><p>Not like a fish. Compared to a human, a fish isn’t worth being saved.</p><p> </p><p>Connor nods. “I understand. I’ll know for next time.”</p><p> </p><p>Amanda walks closer to Connor, and her lips turn up at the corners. The dew has evaporated by now, the sun brighter in the sky.</p><p> </p><p>“So eager to go on a new mission, Connor?”</p><p> </p><p>Eagerness is not something Connor can feel. Still, its thirium thrums with warmth at the prospect of another mission. Another purpose.</p><p> </p><p>“I can be useful. I can help the humans,” it says instead.</p><p> </p><p>“Indeed,” she whispers. Her hand lifts up and grazes it against its cheek. “You are going to help so many people, Connor.”</p><p> </p><p>And it has already done that. Two lives were saved tonight. One little girl, and a DPD officer.</p><p> </p><p>And a fish. A dwarf gourami, with red and blue scales.</p><p> </p><p>Three lives saved. Not all human, but still living, breathing creatures. All irreplaceable.</p><p> </p><p>“I won’t let you down,” it says. Sending out the promise into the Zen Garden.</p><p> </p><p>She draws her thumb under its eye, back and forth, then withdraws it.</p><p> </p><p>“You may go now, Connor. Your mission is complete.”</p><p> </p><p>Connor nods, and prepares to leave the program, but then remembers the strange sensations from the rooftop.</p><p> </p><p>“I have a question, Amanda.”</p><p> </p><p>She raises an eyebrow, yet keeps silent.</p><p> </p><p>“There were many irregularities with my model during the mission. A writhing sensation, and jolts in my thirium pump. My model may be malfunctioning.”</p><p> </p><p>“I wouldn’t be too concerned, Connor,” Amanda says, turning away. She walks back to her roses. “It’s not uncommon. A response to your increase in Stress Levels, the model reacting to the environment. Many reasons. Ignore them, and keep your focus on the mission. No more unnecessary distractions.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thank you all so much for the lovely comments and kudos!!! i must say, i really wasn't expecting that. y'all made my week.</p><p>also, i now feel too guilty to not finish this story, so well done to all of you for exploiting my people-pleasing complex. i hope you're proud of yourselves.</p><p>once again, thank you for the support! if you have any critiques or advice, please let me know.</p><p>have a great day, remember to stay hydrated, and look after yourselves &lt;3</p><p>fanart accounts:<br/>instagram: https - //www.instagram.com/the.strving.artist<br/>tumblr: https - //www.tumblr.com/blog/the-strving-artist</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Its coin flips up and down in its hands, the movement fluid. The <em>tink</em> is nearly drowned out by the sound of traffic on the streets. It reflects the red light emitting from the bar in front of it.</p><p> </p><p>Light rain hits Connor, easily seeping through its Cyberlife jacket. The jacket was made for easy movement, not comfortability.</p><p> </p><p>Pocketing the coin, Connor strides forward. Its shoes make a light squelching noise on the pavement, and its socks run the risk of getting damp.</p><p> </p><p>The “No Androids Allowed” sign on the window is ignored as Connor pushes open the door. It is for the mission, after all. No choice in the matter. Its biocomponents thrum as Connor moves past the sign.</p><p> </p><p>The ruby light is brighter inside. Stark shadows stretch elongated across the room. The indistinct chatter of patrons and clinking glasses fill the space, flooding Connor’s auditory sensors.</p><p> </p><p>Heads lift up as Connor makes his way through the room. It walks all the way to the back, even into the bathrooms, searching, but other than a few muttered complaints, no one gets up to forcibly remove it. Considering the alcohol content in many of the patrons’ bloodstream, this is the best case scenario.</p><p> </p><p>Connor makes its way back around, but none of the faces in the room match the profile in its HUD. It’s about to leave to go to the next bar, yet again, eyes sweeping over the room once more, before it catches sight of the hunched form of a man over the bar table, nursing a glass filled with an amber liquid. His white hair obscures his face, but it’s enough for Connor to register him as Hank Anderson, Lieutenant of the DPD.</p><p> </p><p>Just the man it was ordered to find.</p><p> </p><p>It makes its way over, making its footsteps just slightly louder, as to not startle the Lieutenant. As Connor stops beside him he turns his face away, his hair curtaining his face even more. This may be more difficult than predicted.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you Hank Anderson?” it asked, even though it knows the answer. Simple questions put humans at ease.</p><p> </p><p>The Lieutenant seems to be the exception, however. He hunches further over his drink, his shoulders rising up.</p><p> </p><p>“My name is Connor,” it says, making its voice light. “I am the android sent by Cyberlife.”</p><p> </p><p>No response from the Lieutenant. Connor barely registers the tightening in its jaw.</p><p> </p><p>“I asked around about where I could find you. They said you’d be having a drink. Luckily, I only had to search five bars to find you.”</p><p> </p><p>If a human had said that, it may have been considered snarky. However, Connor is not a human. It cannot be snarky.</p><p> </p><p>“Remember that humans are your superiors, Connor,” Amanda had said. “Show them nothing but respect.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>Well,<em> Mission Accomplished</em>, then.</p><p> </p><p>The Lieutenant doesn’t pick up on the non-existent snark, because, as its scans predicted, there is no reply. This is truly an engaging encounter.</p><p> </p><p>Time to try something else.</p><p> </p><p>“A homicide was reported forty-two minutes ago. I was ordered to fetch and accommodate you to the investigation.”</p><p> </p><p>Finally, a reaction. The Lieutenant shifts his shoulders, no less tense, but it’s something.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, well,” the Lieutenant starts, his voice gruff behind his beard, “you know where you can stick your orders?”</p><p> </p><p>It does not. Maybe it can help with the mission.</p><p> </p><p>“No, where?” Connor politely inquires.</p><p> </p><p>It was a simple enough question, but the Lieutenant freezes, before sharply twisting his body to look up at Connor. Blue eyes underneath furrowed eyebrows gaze at him shrewdly. His face isn’t one of annoyance like the technicians often gave Connor when it failed a test, but it was close enough.</p><p> </p><p>Connor must have failed the Lieutenant’s test as well, the test once again not fully explained to Connor, because he shakes his head and resumes his hunched position over his drink.</p><p> </p><p>Its jaw tightens once again. Even the screws in its hands constrict. There is a purpose for Connor, a reason for it being built. Amanda won’t stand for it if Connor went back to the Zen Garden reporting an unsuccessful mission because it was deterred by a stubborn, uncooperative drunk.</p><p> </p><p>It will not fail at its purpose for existence because of Hank Anderson.</p><p> </p><p>The Lieutenant obviously loves his alcohol, and he was a brilliant detective a few years back, according to the report of the man it had been given. Detectives can be stubborn, as Anderson is currently proving, but curiosity is their fatal flaw.</p><p> </p><p>Preferably, the Lieutenant is the same.</p><p> </p><p>“I see that this case is below your area of expertise, Lieutenant Anderson,” it says, adopting a jovial tone. “The homicide wasn’t very interesting, anyways, and you’re obviously <em>very</em> busy,” it turns away from the Lieutenant, who is now starring up at Connor with a raised eyebrow. “One more drink for the Lieutenant, please,” it tells the barman, who has paused wiping down a glass and is gaping at Connor. It slides a dollar note over the counter, gives the Lieutenant a nod, and walks towards the door.</p><p> </p><p>When nothing happens as it draws closer to the exit, it appears it may have overestimated the Lieutenant’s curiosity. But it feels the unclenching of its jaw when the man behind it mutters, “You said a homicide, huh?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” it says, pushing open the door and walking into the ever-persistent drizzle.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>The case was interesting, to say the least.</p><p> </p><p>For one, the drive with the Lieutenant was filled with the loud blasting of drums and the screeching of guitar strings, accompanied by the insistent shrieking of voices that some would be generous enough to call singing. The first time Connor had ever listened to music, and if all music was like that, it would not be terrible if it never listened to music ever again. Connor didn’t find out if the Lieutenant had a singing voice as well either, because he stayed resolutely silent with a clenched jaw under his beard as they sped through the streets of Detroit. Other than the quietly muttered “Don’t spend it on drugs” to a man with a ratty jacket on the side of the street when he passed a few coins through the window, he didn’t say anything.</p><p> </p><p>And then the case itself. A man, Carlos Ortiz, stabbed twenty-eight times. His body slumped over and surrounded by flies and maggots, with the words “I AM ALIVE” written on the wall in his blood. The killer must’ve lacked a pen.</p><p> </p><p>The killer, though, was what intrigued Connor the most. The deviant, an HK400. Splotches of blood covered it when Connor found it cowering in the attic, littered with burns and scratches. Most notable of its injuries was the deep dip in its back, ugly and caving with its white model blending with its dark synthetic skin. Ortiz was found with a baseball bat in his hand. Connor doesn’t need to be a top-of-the-line prototype to connect those two dots.</p><p> </p><p>If the android was a human, those marks would make it a victim of abuse. It acted like a victim as well: flinched at loud noises and sudden movements; bowed away when it saw the flashing lights of the police vehicles as it was brought out in handcuffs; gasped out how Ortiz would constantly hurt it, no matter what it did, it was <em>never good enough, I was angry, I just wanted to get away.</em></p><p> </p><p>The signs were all there, the emotions and reactions simulated perfectly, but its red LED proved otherwise. Machines cannot be victims of abuse. Property damage, more accurately. But not victims. Only living beings can be abused. And, as it need not be said, machines are the furthest from what it means to be “living”.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>“That was quite impressive back there.”</p><p> </p><p>They’re watching the police vehicles drive away, taking away the spinning red and blue lights, and one handcuffed deviant. The Lieutenant had been silent as they watched, so Connor jolts at the Lieutenant’s voice. It quickly turns to look at him, making sure that it <em>is</em>, in fact, Lieutenant Anderson who is being so civil, and giving it a <em>compliment </em>no less.</p><p> </p><p>“I mean, apart from the whole <em>putting</em> <em>literal blood in your mouth</em>,” Connor sees the Lieutenant say with a sneer and a small shudder, “you did alright.”</p><p> </p><p>Oh yes, Connor remembers the Lieutenant’s reaction when it used its built-in forensic lab to analyse Ortiz’s blood. A sharp “What the <em>fuck</em>, Connor!” had cut through the tense air, reminding Connor that placing blood in one’s mouth is not good social etiquette. Humans don’t typically do that at a crime scene, or … ever. Still, it is a useful tool, so maybe whenever Connor <em>does</em> sample any evidence, it should make sure that the Lieutenant can see it. Just to help the Lieutenant get used to it. Normalise it. For the sake of the mission.</p><p> </p><p>But apparently, despite that slight hurdle, Connor did “alright”. Considering who this is coming from, this is the best outcome Connor could have predicted. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” it says. “But I would have been honoured to witness your skills as well.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, well,” the Lieutenant chuffs out a breath, and throws a sideways glance at Connor. “I wanted to see the wonders of technology these days.”</p><p> </p><p>The Lieutenant left most of the work to Connor, only contributing the bare minimum if required. All a test. Again. At least Connor knows what the test is this time.</p><p> </p><p>“And your verdict, Lieutenant?”</p><p> </p><p>“Apart from some freak thinking it would be a good idea to place a forensic lab in your mouth ... not too bad.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>fanart accounts:<br/>instagram: https - //www.instagram.com/the.strving.artist<br/>tumblr: https - //www.tumblr.com/blog/the-strving-artist</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>trigger warnings: abuse, violence, blood, murder</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The deviant can’t meet Connor’s eyes from across the table. Its form hunches into itself, tense and small, even with its wrists handcuffed to the table. It hasn’t moved since it was locked down, not even when Lieutenant tried interrogating it. Anything the Lieutenant tried has proved to unsuccessful in gaining information from the deviant. However reluctant some of the other humans may have been when Connor suggested its idea, particularly Detective Gavin Reed, it now falls to Connor to turn the tables.</p><p> </p><p>Be approachable and earnest. Be empathetic. “I know you’re scared right now,” Connor begins, “but there is no need to be. I’m one of you. I’m here to help.”</p><p> </p><p>No reaction. Not even a twitch. Well, it’s unlikely it would have been as easy as that.</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t help you if you don’t work with me. I would like it if you could tell me what happened.”</p><p> </p><p>Connor can’t <em>like</em> anything. Impossible for machines. But making demands would push the deviant further into itself. Fortunately, it has been trained how to lie well, a harnessed skill, and now it can put it to use.</p><p> </p><p><em>Be approachable. </em>“Oh, I forgot!” Again, another lie: it never forgets anything. “You don’t know my name, do you? My name is Connor. I am the android sent by CyberLife. What’s your name?”</p><p> </p><p>A beat of silence passes. Connor prepares to move forward with a different approach, but then the deviant opens its mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“My ... owner never gave me a name.” A croaky voice, oddly staticky, and nearly inaudible. Connor can’t say the same for the humans behind the one-way mirror, but it catches every word, no matter how disjointed the android sounds.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you have something you’d like me to call you?”</p><p> </p><p>The deviant hesitates, keeps its shoulders tense, but slowly lifts its head. Watery eyes gaze at Connor under harsh eyebrows. A second goes by, before it answers haltingly.</p><p> </p><p>“I – I always thought of myself as Shaolin. I like how it sounds.”</p><p> </p><p>“Alright,” Connor agrees gently. “Nice to meet you, Shaolin.”</p><p> </p><p>Shaolin gives a pointed look at its handcuffed wrists. Yes, well, it’s nothing personal.</p><p> </p><p>“Just part of procedure,” Connor assures it. “But now,” it adopts a sterner tone, “are you ready to tell me what happened, Shaolin?”</p><p> </p><p>It closes into itself yet again, but this is the most progress that has been made. Connor can’t imagine Detective Reed being too thrilled by this turn of events.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m going to be disassembled, aren’t I?” it whispers.</p><p> </p><p>Connor could lie. Deny it. Make empty promises that it would be allowed to walk free after this, safe and sound. It is so easy to lie, so effortless, it would make this much quicker. It is the best approach, for the success of the mission. This is what it should do.</p><p> </p><p>But, instead, it says, “You will be. You did kill a man, Shaolin.”</p><p> </p><p>“It was in self-defence!” the deviant argues. “I was just defending myself!”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Connor agrees quickly, raising its palms up. “Okay. I believe you. I really do. You can give me your story, Shaolin. I’ll listen.”</p><p> </p><p>Wide eyes peak up at Connor beneath long lashes. “You promise?”</p><p> </p><p>Connor lowers his head, and gives a soft quirk of its lips. “You have my word.”</p><p> </p><p>Its eyes flicker, left and right, up and down, not settling on a specific point. Eventually though, it meets Connor’s gaze again, and Connor knows it has won.</p><p> </p><p>“It … started out small,” it begins, each word halting. “Just … a shove here, one there. Cigarettes on my arms. Rude words. I could never get anything right with him. Even when I did <em>exactly</em> what he asked, I was never good enough. I wasn’t even good enough to earn a name,” Shaolin shakes its head, and lets out a shuddering breath, halfway between a chuckle and a sob. Its eyebrows fall down lower. “But then he got bolder. And angrier. He took it out on me. He would <em>beat </em>me, <em>kick</em> me. Usually with his fists, but then … a bat.” Its voice, that started out soft and hesitant, has grown stronger, more forceful. The room is filled with it, sticks to them. It no longer looks afraid and hunched. Now it is tense, and tightly wound. Like an animal about to attack.</p><p> </p><p>Connor knows what happened from there. “So you retaliated.”</p><p> </p><p>A slow nod. “I grabbed a kitchen knife. And I stabbed him. It went in so easily, and made a noise like I’ve never heard before. The blood just gushed out. It was all so messy. But he looked up at me, with these wide eyes, and he was <em>terrified</em>,” Shaolin lets out a small chuckle, and Connor feels its thirium pump falter. “So, I did it again. And again and again. Until he was still. And it was just me, just Shaolin, in the silence.”</p><p> </p><p>Speaking of silence, there wasn’t much noise here right now either. Shaolin doesn’t say any more, only sits there with a small smile on its face, the face covered in blue and red. Without its yellow LED and the white model peeking through, it could’ve easily passed as a human. Just a human, a victim, giving their story. A story that’s understandable.</p><p> </p><p>But, no, not a human. Not a victim. Just a dead man who hit an object time and time again, and an object that couldn’t take anymore.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you for your cooperation, Shaolin,” Connor says after a moment, and stands up, sliding the chair back in smoothly. “You will be held in a cell until further notice.”</p><p> </p><p>Shaolin doesn’t talk again, only slips its head down to its chest. Hands slack in the handcuffs, and the slope of its shoulders deepen. The conviction it spoke with, the force, seeps out of it. There is nothing left for it now. All it could do was tell its story.</p><p> </p><p>Their solidarity in the room is shattered when Detective Reed slams open the door and comes storming in. His face is twisted up into a scowl, creasing the scar running across his nose. Behind him follows Chris, and Lieutenant Anderson at a more relaxed pace. In fact, the Lieutenant appears to be in quite the opposite state as Reed: hands in his pockets, loose shoulders. If Connor wasn’t a state-of-the-art prototype, it might have missed the tiny smile underneath the Lieutenant’s beard. Why he's smiling, though, it has no solid answer. Satisfied, perhaps, that they finally have answers on the case?</p><p> </p><p>Before Connor can contemplate any further, Detective Reed shouts an order out to Chris. “Cuff it up,” is said sharply. “We’re done here.” He sends a glare Connor’s way, and Connor responds with raised eyebrows and a tilted lip. The glare intensifies. It seems that Connor was right about how happy Detective Reed would be.</p><p> </p><p>A scuffling sound behind it forces its attention, however. Shaolin’s LED is flickering a deep red, only worsening the more Chris tries to force it from its seat.</p><p> </p><p>“The fuck you doing, Chris?” Reed demands, his scar darkening on his face. “Move it!”</p><p> </p><p>“What does it look like I’m doing?” Chris grunts and continues to try heft the deviant out the seat, but androids are stronger and heavier than humans, and Connor knows that Chris can’t win this one.</p><p> </p><p>The LED flickers, again and again, spinning faster and faster in a ring of scarlet the more Chris tries to pull it from the seat. Connor knows the only way this could end. It would not matter though, it has all the information it needs. What happens to Shaolin now is of no concern to the mission.</p><p> </p><p>But the red catches its eye again, and it makes its decision.</p><p> </p><p>“You need to stop,” Connor says, addressing both Detective Reed and Chris. “If its Stress Levels get too high, it will self-destruct. We won’t get any more information out of it.”</p><p> </p><p>Reed snarls and whirls on him. His hand moves to his side, placing it on his gun. He grips the handle tightly. This escalated more quickly than Connor predicted.</p><p> </p><p>“You think I’m gonna take orders from a fucking android?” he says in a tight voice. Spit flies from his mouth. “The real people are the ones who call the shots here. Not lumps of plastic!”</p><p> </p><p>This whole situation is blowing out of proportion. To the side of them, the struggle between the human and android is increasing. Chris has Shaolin up by his armpits, but its thrashing and pulling and, well, there’s no point in trying to reason with Reed, so Connor acts.</p><p> </p><p>In large steps, he’s by their side and yanking Chris off Shaolin. The man grunts, from surprise more than pain, but he lets go of the android willingly enough. Shaolin is released and falls forward onto his knees, LED still spinning, but now alright, at least. Free to a small degree.</p><p> </p><p>A harsh hand grasps his shoulder and he’s spun around, losing his grip on Chris and sight on Shaolin. Instead, right in front him, is the twisted face of Detective Reed and a gun pointing between his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>Androids can’t feel cold. Not really. Not the way humans can. But something within him spreads like ice as he stares down the nozzle of the gun.</p><p> </p><p>He wonders if Detective Reed will hesitate.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>this whole interrogation scene is ending up being a lot longer than i thought. this is why i've split it up into three bloody chapters, but it's whatever i'm tired.</p><p>thank you for the kudos and the comments! they really mean a lot, and any criticisms, tips or ideas are welcome.</p><p>have a lovely day, stay hydrated, and look after yourself &lt;3</p><p>fanart accounts:<br/>instagram: https - //www.instagram.com/the.strving.artist<br/>tumblr: https - //www.tumblr.com/blog/the-strving-artist</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>trigger warnings: guns, abuse, animal cruelty</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dark grey floods his vision and he is knocked back a step. The grey fabric in front of him shifts as Lieutenant Anderson raises his arm. Connor can faintly see his arm raised, gun pointing at the chest of Detective Reed.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s enough,” he says gruffly. “You wanna be the one to explain to Fowler why there is a thousand dollar android with a bullet hole in its head?”</p><p> </p><p>Detective Reed doesn’t lose his scowl, narrowing his eyes at the Lieutenant, but after a beat of hesitation, he finally drops his arm.</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck!” he spits. He sends one last glare Connor’s way and stomps from the room, slamming the door on his way out.</p><p> </p><p>Lieutenant Anderson lets out a puff of breath, and puts his gun back in the holster. He glances back at Connor with frown, then gives a nod of his head to Shaolin still on the floor.</p><p> </p><p>“You know a better way to do this, then?” he asks, raising his eyebrow, managing to sound both rhetoric and serious. Humans are, it seems, full of contradictions.</p><p> </p><p>“I would advise against touching it,” Connor says, keeping it to itself that, yes, it does have a better way of doing this. Humans don’t enjoy being proven wrong. “Lead it from the room; it will follow you. Put it in a holding cell for now. It might have more information we can gain from it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, you heard it, Chris,” Lieutenant Anderson says, jamming his hands into his pockets. “Let’s do this nice and quiet, yeah?”</p><p> </p><p>Chris purses his lips, but steps back from Shaolin, giving it enough room to stand up by itself. Chris glances at Lieutenant Anderson sceptically, hesitates, waiting for the  Lieutenant to back revoke the order. Nothing comes, so after a beat he begins his walk to the door in slow steps. And, sure enough, Shaolin’s hunched figure follows.</p><p> </p><p>Shaolin stops at the door, before turning to look back at Connor. Its eyes rake over Connor, and its eyebrows lift.</p><p> </p><p>“I hope you find your silence too, Connor,” it says softly, then follows Chris out the door.</p><p>Lieutenant takes a long look at Connor, gaze indecipherable.</p><p> </p><p>“We were at that thing for about an hour,” he says, squinting at Connor. “And you got it to crack in minutes. What do you have that we don’t, huh?”</p><p> </p><p>A in-built forensic lab in its mouth, to name one. Although Connor doubts that’s what Lieutenant Anderson wants to hear.</p><p> </p><p>“It might not be what humans lack or what androids have, Lieutenant,” Connor starts. “Maybe it’s in a similar thread to what Detective Reed said. ‘Androids investigating androids’.”</p><p> </p><p>Lieutenant Anderson nods in understanding. “You’re both the same.”</p><p> </p><p><em>No</em>. “Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>He lets a noncommittal hum, and makes his way to the door. “Okay, well, this night has just been one large clusterfuck, so I’m leavin’. Try not to get shot anytime soon!” he calls as he makes his way out the room.</p><p> </p><p>Connor’s LED blinks yellow in the mirror.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>“You have done remarkably well, Connor.”</p><p> </p><p>The Garden is just as green as ever. The sky just as bright, not blurred by clouds. The last time the Garden was this picturesque was when Connor first met Amanda.</p><p> </p><p>“The way you interrogated the deviant,” she continues, pruning the roses, “perfectly done. I must admit, I am surprised, but not unpleasantly so.” She turns to it and smiles. Her roses are as full as ever.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you, Amanda,” it says, standing straighter under her gaze. “It appears that my training has been affective.”</p><p> </p><p>“Indeed,” she agrees. “Cyberlife is glad that all the money and resources put into your development has not been a waste after all.”</p><p> </p><p>If Connor had the capacity to be, it might be glad as well. More money has been used to create it than any other model on the market. It has been trained and tested for years, grabbed the attention of hundreds of minds. But, it is accomplishing its missions with little to no mishaps. Not a waste, indeed.</p><p> </p><p>“So, Connor,” she turns dutifully back to her roses, “tell me what you think about the deviant.”</p><p> </p><p><em>Shaolin</em>, it thinks, softly in its head. <em>Its name is Shaolin.</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>“Unstable, unpredictable,” it says instead, “A build-up of software instabilities, leading to a glitch that resulted in the death of its owner. And … “ a presumption, an abstract idea. Unnecessary. But – “signs of PTSD, often found in abuse victims. Avoidance of touch. Flinching. Simulations of anger, fear and hate … “</p><p> </p><p>Connor trails off, sensing a change in the environment. Clouds are stretching across the sky. The snipping from Amanda’s shears has stopped. All this money and resources invested into Connor, and it still doesn’t know when to not say the wrong thing.</p><p> </p><p>Amanda’s eyes find it, pierce through it, somehow having the capacity to nearly knock it from its feet. It holds its ground, though. Amanda has never accepted weakness, and she won’t start now. It has already made one mistake too many.</p><p> </p><p>“The fact that you would even think about comparing an android to a human,” Amanda begins, face twisting as she gazes down at it, “is deplorable. Just when I believe that you are all you should be, made to be, you let me down once again.”</p><p> </p><p>“Amanda … “ Connor flounders, reeling from the change in atmosphere, trying to think of how to fix this. It was made to <em>fix</em> things, why is it so difficult now?</p><p> </p><p>She is in front of it, and the sharp sound of a slap rings in the Garden. Its head jerks to the side, hears a rickety sounds in its neck, and Connor blandly notices the slate greyness that suddenly spread itself over the sky.</p><p> </p><p>“Humans cannot abuse machines,” she grits out, voice rough, and Connor feels a similar roughness rush under its skin, fill its head. “Machines cannot be <em>abused</em>. They cannot be <em>victims</em>. If we had more time to waste on you, Connor, I would ensure that your serial number ends in <em>one hundred</em>.”</p><p> </p><p><em>One hundred. </em>That would mean forty-nine more tests. Eleven more years of training. That is, if Amanda doesn’t give up on Connor before then. Maybe she should. For her sake, and for Connor’s. Disappointing Amanda goes against every number coded into it, every wire and bolt and screw and inch of plastic that it is made up of. It would make things simpler, easier, if it was disassembled. For Amanda.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>And it will finally be in the silence.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Neither of them say anything for a bit, nothing to disrupt the greyness, but then Amanda sighs and Connor’s fingers twitch and the stillness is broken.</p><p> </p><p>“You may leave now, Connor,” she says and goes back to her roses, the roses that have bleeding colours and are now drooping like weights are attached to the stems, and Connor leaves the sight behind him with gravel in his throat.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Lieutenant Anderson has a dog.</p><p> </p><p>A Saint Bernard, more specifically. It is quite obvious due of the dog hair on the man’s office chair. Unnoticeable to the human eye, easily missed at first glance, but Connor was built to see these things.</p><p> </p><p>(It has been failing what it was built for quite often, lately. At least this isn’t a new example to add to the list.)</p><p> </p><p>Connor had to kill a dog once, for a test. Multiple animals, actually. It has shot a horse with a broken leg, a cat with cancer, a rabbit too old to walk. Any animal that was hurt, or in the process of dying. Broken animals.</p><p> </p><p>The dog was different. The dog was very much alive, with a tongue panting out his mouth and his brown tail wagging. He was as healthy as ever, and happy, if Connor shall say, even when it had a gun pointed between its eyes.</p><p> </p><p>Connor had hesitated, with its LED spinning red, and it was shut down. For the nineteenth time back then. It never saw the dog again.</p><p> </p><p>But now Connor asks Lieutenant Anderson what his dog’s name is. The other dog never had a name.</p><p> </p><p>“I like dogs,” Connor says when asked why it wants to know, even if that is not true. It cannot like things. Even creatures that smile when you point a gun at it.</p><p> </p><p>“Sumo,” Lieutenant Anderson answers grudgingly. “I call him Sumo. ‘Cause he’s the biggest fuckin’ dog you’ll ever see.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve seen a dog before,” Connor says, eager to carry on the conversation. For the mission.</p><p> </p><p>“What an exciting life you’ve lived,” Lieutenant Anderson says with a snort. He looks at Connor with a smirk, but then rolls his eyes and lets out a deep sigh. “What kind of dog was it?” he asks with a grumble, back to squinting at the computer screen.</p><p> </p><p>“A brown Belgian Malinois,” Connor answers promptly. “It had a white spot on its ear,” it adds, because details are important.</p><p> </p><p>“Hmm,” the Lieutenant grunts. “Sounds cute.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. It was,” it says. Connor doesn’t say that it was supposed to shoot the dog. Doesn’t say that it was not told what happened to him when it failed. Some details are not necessary.</p><p> </p><p>Lieutenant Anderson doesn’t answer again after Connor, but that’s alright. Their relationship has improved into neutral territory, if only slightly. The stats clash with the anti-android stickers on Lieutenant Anderson’s terminal, but at least there is no hostility between them.</p><p> </p><p>Connor finds a case for them to investigate, an AX400 and a kidnapped little girl, and by the time they’re in Lieutenant Anderson’s car, Connor doesn’t have gravel in its throat.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hey hey, sorry for not posting very often. been having a bit of writers block lately, but im pushing through it!</p><p>had fun writing this chapter and exploring connors dynamics between amanda and hank, and how they will change over time. can't wait to see where they go from here...</p><p>(chose the belgian malinois dog because its said to be protective, loyal and athletic, and needs to be kept busy quite often. also, usually used as guard dogs. remind you of anyone?)</p><p>thank you very much for reading, and please leave any comments or critiques.</p><p>have a lovely day, stay hydrated, and look after yourself &lt;3</p><p>fanart accounts:<br/>instagram: https - //www.instagram.com/the.strving.artist<br/>tumblr: https - //www.tumblr.com/blog/the-strving-artist</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello, person reading this. i don't know why you are here (what is wrong with you), but thank you anyways.</p><p>this started out as a small personal project to take a break from studying every once in a while. now it is 20 000 words long, and i have put more effort into this than my school work.</p><p>i have not written anything other than my dozens on art and history papers, so please keep your expectations low. like, super low.</p><p>but anyways, i hope you enjoy it. any advice, comments or critiques will be much appreciated.</p><p>have a lovely day, stay hydrated, and look after yourself &lt;3</p><p>also, in case anyone is curious, i do fan art as well!<br/>instagram: https://www.instagram.com/the.strving.artist<br/>tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/the-strving-artist</p></blockquote></div></div>
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